Must Get Out
by Sweet Apocalypse
Summary: She's self destructive. I don't know why you bother. Oneshot.


**must get out.**

_There's only so much I can do for you  
After all of the things you put me through_

I seriously considered leaving the half-finished paper as it was, and catching up on some much needed sleep. But I'd bullshitted for most of the questions, so every mark counted if I intended to pass. I'd be better off writing as much as I could. I picked up the pen again and studied the paper. I had to make this count.

I knew that if I failed school, I had no plan, nowhere to go. But I didn't have the motivation anymore. I'd lost it alongside a whole lot of other things. I'd try to study, and end up painting my nails, or organising my itunes. It's been a long time since I've been focused. Even doing this exam, I can't keep my mind on track. If it were maths, I'd be okay, cause I like it, but English? No way. I could barely remember the book my class had been analysing. I was exhausted. I always was. I'd go to bed tired, and wake up tired.

"Yeah, I'm so tired too," Mary Anne had agreed, "There's so much to do!" But at least you had done it, I thought, at least you had something to show for it. I had nothing to show for it. Just unwashed hair and bags under my eyes. I used to be fashionable, popular, with loads of friends, an endless string of admirers. Back in the day, I was in the Baby-Sitters Club, I was the treasurer, man (me, a figure of responsibility?), and I was on top of the world. Not that I'm off slitting my wrists, or snorting coke now but something… doesn't feel right. I feel much more alone than I ever used to.

Honestly, if I put my mind to it, I could have more company. But I don't want to, and if you don't put in the effort, people don't bother. I mean I have Katie Shea, my new BFF and Pete Black. Besides, Pete and our dramas consume so much of my time, it wouldn't be fair on any third parties. And I like it that way. Simple. We had gone back to my house yesterday, after school, just like old times, just the two of us. Slipped back into old routines, old moves, until we realised our faux, and pulled back breathless. We lay side-by-side on my bed and stared at my ceiling silently. We do that a lot.

"You have to break up with her," I had said suddenly.

"Why? You offering to be my girlfriend again?" He sounded amused.

I always ignore what I don't want to hear. "Because you're fooling around with other girls!"

Pete shrugged, stretched out, comfortable in familiar surroundings. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it carefully. "It's only a casual thing. You know how Cokie is. No anniversaries, no flowers, no changing of myspace statuses, just…'

"Sex?"

"We haven't had sex yet," he said patiently. Pete always has patience with me. He's so pragmatic and I'm so irrational that the two of us balance out perfectly. He thought about it for a moment. "We're just having fun. Yeah, okay, she has a bit of a reputation, but… she has it all together, Stace, none of that shit phases her. She's just so strong, you know?"

"Yeah I do," I said bitterly, because it was very easy for me to tell what he was thinking, "I used to be just like that."

Pete sighed, and turned towards me. My quilt has half a dozen burns just because of him. I don't want to buy a new one.

"Stacey, I can't always give you all the help you need."

"I don't need help."

Silence.

"Okay," he settled back, into the pillows, and patted my leg lightly, "Okay."

Pete and I have a complicated, yet so simple, history. The same old: I fell in love, he fell in love, people said it wouldn't work, then I made mistakes, he made mistakes, everyone chorused 'we told you so' and then we just _broke, _we shattered, and no one was willing enough to glue us back together. What more is there to say?

"You're too young to get so attached, Stace," Katie had giggled, "Though Pete isn't that bad."

Pete's a great guy. You just have to fight a little to see the interior. But it's worth it. He's worth it. Katie says the two us are very expressive. I agree. Sometimes in calculus, before the lesson begins, I sit on his desk, my legs dangerously crossed. Sometimes he's leaning forward, laughing with me but most often than not, we're in two worlds: me staring at the wall, playing with bleached, ruined hair, and him, his head turned towards the window, stretched lazily back in his chair, like a cat. And that's enough for the two of us. Because that _is _the two of us. It's just so hard to explain, but when you have that kind of connection, it can't be concealed - it shows itself. It's too difficult to break. Anyway, all we succeeded really was attracting attention and confusion ('I can't believe he's back with _her_') I guess it bothers me a little. You know how some people say they don't care what others think? Well that's not true. It's human nature, alright - to survive, you gotta fit in. Some people, like Pete, I care enormously what they think of me, but the stranger I saw on the street? The kids at my school? No, not really.

Sometimes. Maybe.

I guess I believe Pete and I could make it work one day. I just don't know when that day will be. Before graduation? Ten years from now? Will we separate and reunite age eighty in a nursing home? Imagine how I'd look! Growing old scares me. But hey, even leaving school, freaks me out. I have no idea what to do with my life. If I studied I could get into a good college. Dad would pay. And I want to, but then I don't. I'm just so apathetic. I want it all to matter to me again, but I just can't make that happen.

I hadn't seen my Dad in ages. He's very busy with his job. It's understandable. I always mean to ring, but forget when something more pressing arises, which in my life, could mean a lot of things. Tonight, perhaps, I'll call, but Katie's dragging me to a party. Never a school one, that's our rule - too many witnesses. Like the last one I went to in sophomore year, oh god, that darkened room, the thumping bass, Bart Taylor's lips on mine, his hands in my hair…. and Kristy Thomas, barging in, eyes wide first in shock, and then ablaze in anger. Man, how she had yelled; her words throbbed worse than any hangover.

"I can't believe I'd ever expected anything better of you, Miss-I'm so-sophisticated-because-I-come-from New York. " She ran her words quickly, slamming them hard into the next. There was still that childish element embedded within. But then they morphed, time sped up and suddenly we aged. "What the hell, Stacey? I defended you against everyone! Everyone! And it turns out they were all right, Stacey. You're not worth it! You're worth nothing to me, worth nothing to yourself, I can tell, by the way you act, you know, carrying on with other people's boyfriends! You'll never be of value to anyone in your life!"

"I never asked you to! I never asked you to do anything for me!" I had shrieked back, flinging on my top, Bart slinking away. "You can't boss me around, Kristy, like we're in that stupid club again! I don't care what you think of me. Stop being so fucking self-righteous. And-" Here was the clincher, the real Stacey McGill shining through. Would she please stand up? "Like you and Bart were _ever_ serious in the first place! I don't blame him for coming onto me. You still act and dress like you're twelve, you immature bitch! I'm surprised you even let him kiss you, or wait, is that going too fa-"

Even I agreed I deserved that smack. Kristy had done so much for me; from the first day I joined the BSC. She had always made the effort to stand up for me, to defend me no matter the rumours or consequences and how did I repay her? By letting her catch me with her boyfriend? So I could show her what a slime ball he was? Great defense, McGill. I was a social outcast for two months, before people even began to forget. I was a leper. I was a boyfriend stealer. And Pete had sighed, stroking my hair as I sobbed into his jumper, "What are we going to with you, Stace?"

And there went any of my remaining links with the BSC. Whoosh, down the drain. Mary Anne speaks to me, sometimes, no idea why (Katie says she's desperate for friends. I disagree. Mary Anne is well liked. She probably feels sorry for me, that's it. I'm her pity case.), and Claudia offers me smiles occasionally, cause you can't just stop acknowledging someone you were once so close to, even if it's just something as small as the twitch of the lips... but, I don't know, it's like I'm living in a different world to them. As if there's some great barrier between us. I don't know how else to explain it. Kristy of course, has never spoken to me again. She knows how to hold a grudge. Laine would be proud. Proof of this: beyond that night I never received anymore baby-sitting offers (I don't want to know how she pulled that one off). They'd be been waning for some time, anyway, so it wasn't that big of a deal. I didn't miss my old occupation much. Not really, but still. I couldn't even see Charlotte. Like she could even recognise me now.

"She's self destructive," Cokie had cooed to Pete, as they wrestled in the toilets after the winter dance. "I don't know why you bother. She's killing herself, baby, she's killing you." Of course I was. But Pete had told me, because just as I had left everything behind so had he. We were best friends still; I was all he had really, so of course he had an obligation to tell me.

"Maybe she has a point," he had then pondered through the dark.

I pretended not to hear him.

It's not like I have a whole string of boys after me. If they are any, they aren't your average high school boys. I bet they're all worried about getting some disease, but there haven't been that many guys besides Pete. Three or four at the most. Maybe it's because I'm too thin, my skin too sallow? Mom worries about my health, she worries about me, but it's too late. I make sure I eat, take my medication and not drink too much because it's my obligation to her. I don't cause my parents much trouble. They know something is wrong, but they can't pinpoint it: I don't do drugs, I'm not flunking school (yet) and I don't stay out till two in the morning god knows where. Where am I going wrong?

"You can change, Stace," Pete would say. "It's never too late."

"I will when you do," I'd respond on cue. I know how to get to him. And the silence would resume once more.

Silence is just about all I can hear right now. Pens are scratching, their pace quickening by the minute. The teacher crosses a time off on the board. I look over at Pete. He's writing away furiously. I pause, and push my thoughts out of my head for the next thirty minutes. Perhaps I can do this. Maybe not.

I begin writing all the same.


End file.
